Devastation & Reform
by electricsymphony
Summary: From the aftermath of loss and the wreckage of hysteria, comes a delicate balance between grief and devastation. Grief is a natural process that cannot be avoided. Devastation is the excess of grief. Reform is your only option, and it's anything but a simple task. Re-write of Season 4. Elejah, Datherine, eventual Kol/Stefan. Includes entire cast of characters.
1. I

**Devastation & Reform**

Notes: Hello, and welcome to my personal adaptation/re-write of S4 of 'The Vampire Diaries'. I hope you'll stay a while. ;)

Plot lines that you should expect to encounter in this story:

An extensive delving into the concept of a vampire bloodline, and the widespread implications that has. A complete and thorough investigation and overhaul of the spell in which vampires were created, and subsequently an important focus on the nature and existence of the doppelganger as a supernatural being, as well as the origins of the vampire species. A different spin and attempt on the Vampire Council story line introduced in early S4. The concept of a cure for vampirism used in a completely different context, although still tied to the concept of 'The Five'. Many, _many _flashbacks including all eras and characters. A focus on a purely platonic aspect of _both _Stelena and Delena (*gasp*). A complex and intricate Katherine/Elena non-sexual relationship/partnership. _A lot _of Kol, and all Original Family Members, in flashbacks and in present. A strong focus on Tatia and her meaning to present-day involvement.

Plot lines that you should be absolutely certain will not appear in this story:

The existence of the concept of 'sire-bond', anything related to Silas, nohumanity!anybody, and for that matter, humanity switches in general, as well as the character of April.

This story is dedicated first and foremost to all the Elejah shipper girls of The Official Originals Forum. You guys have such a steadfast devotion and faith in this ship that honestly leaves me in awe more often than not. I wish I could say I had that kind of faith and belief in anything, but sadly, I cannot make this claim. You guys put all other shippers to shame with the deep love and analysis you put into your ship, and it is this above all else that convinced me to make this story primarily featuring Elejah.

To Taz, who is a constant means of support and friendship, and without whom it would literally be quite impossible to muster up _any _remaining faith in this fandom, let alone this show. You can claim all you want that the crazy and whacked out ideas I come up with are solely mine, but you should know that it would be impossible to weave them all together without you. You're the best plotting partner anyone could ever ask for.

To Andy, who's constant encouragement, critique and enthusiasm of my writing is a strong reason why this story exists. Without your words, I would be unable to write a single letter in confidence without second-guessing myself.

And lastly, to _absolutely anyone _out there reading this who had their heart and soul ripped out and shredded to pieces by Season Four, for any reason at all. This is for you guys.

**Disclaimer: **The Vampire Diaries, its characters, plot lines and premise belong to LJ Smith, Kevin Williamson, Julie Plec, The CW, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. I do not own _anything _detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings. The song lyrics depicted in this chapter and the title come from the song 'Devastation and Reform' and belong to the band 'Relient K', the writers of the song itself, and 2007 Capitol Records. All rights reserved to respective parties.

_Fear can drive stick,_

_and it's taking me down this road,_

_a road down which,_

_i swore i'd never go;_

_and here i sit,_

_thinking of god knows what,_

_afraid to admit i might self destruct._

For thousands of years, humans had contemplated the complexities surrounding death, theorized the likelihood of a pearly white gate greeting your path to the afterlife. Elena Gilbert had never been a highly religious person, and she had never held much stock in the various speculations of life after death. With that said, she had also never expected the afterlife to sound remarkably like a tropical rainforest. She could hear the rustle of wind gusting through a patch of leaves, a squirrel nibbling on the hard shell of an acorn, the distressed caw of a bird looking for its next meal, and beads of rain pelting against a screen door.

She reached her arm up to rub her eyes so she could get a clear picture of her surroundings, but was startled to feel the intense ache in her bones at even the slightest movements. She opened her eyes slowly, as if apprehensive at the possible scene before her, but a blindingly bright white light forced them shut instantly. She let out a painful moan and tried to push herself off the cold, metal slab.

The strength in her elbows gave out and she collapsed back down on the table, her breathing ragged and shallow. There was an intense burning in the back of her throat, and she couldn't recall it ever feeling so sore, not even during the two weeks she stayed home ill in Freshman Year with Laryngitis. She wanted to scoff at the memory of the sermons Pastor Young used to give when she was a little kid that insisted death was 'painless'. Well, this sure as hell wasn't painless.

The soft, unexpected touch was so startling that it made the little hairs on her forearm stand up in reaction. Her whole body seemed tense and on high alert, as if poised to defend from some onslaught of attacks. She shivered and turned away from the touch, moaning incoherent mumbles in protest.

"Elena, stop; it's okay, you're okay." The smooth, reassuring voice was unmistakably Stefan, and now she was even more confused than when she'd woken up. From the touch of the cold metal against her back and the aching bones and joints in every area of her body to Stefan's clear voice reassuring her she was okay, all signs were pointing to still being alive. But that made even less sense than waking up in this strange place. She clearly remembered—in excruciatingly vivid detail, no less—pounding on the water locked windows of Matt's submerged truck, dismissing Stefan's attempt to save her and insisting he take Matt, the painful last breath of water filling her lungs before she slid out of consciousness.

It took considerable effort to open her eyes, and the blinding white light—which she could now discern was a fluorescent lighting fixture—only accentuated the pain of the fierce pounding in her head. She noticed the worried frown on Stefan's face, and although she had been in danger more times than she could count, she had never seen him look this upset and guilty before.

"Where are we?" The question sounded perfectly articulate to her own ears, but her throat was so dry and sore that she assumed it had come out closer to some sort of gibberish. If the reaction on Stefan's face was any indication, he didn't understand a syllable of her question. He took her hand in his own, and the simple gesture sent electric shock waves down her spine, making her shiver in response.

He stroked the side of her cheek and spoke softly. "Lay back, I don't want you hurting yourself." The affectionate gestures were a nice comfort, especially given the tumultuous nature of their non-relationship in the past few months, but it only served to heighten her suspicions. His tone was worried and frantic, as if she were an unstable, skittish creature ready to lash out at a moments notice. Stefan had never spoken to her in such a way, regardless of whether he was dealing with Ripper-tendencies at the time.

She took a deep breath, clenched her fists at her sides, and tried to regain control of her vocal chords. "Stefan, what's going on?" There—she was sure that was coherent enough for Stefan's comprehension.

"Elena, you've-"

"If you give me some bullshit evasion like, 'You've been through so much, let's wait for you to get better', I'll kick you so hard you'll hit the other side of the room."

The unbridled shock on Stefan's face at the aggressiveness of her tone was clearly evident, but he couldn't have possibly been more shocked by her words than Elena herself. She may have felt the anger at being deemed of an unfit mental state to hear the reality of what had happened, but the words had flown out of her mouth before she could even contemplate stopping them.

"I'm sorry," she apologized immediately, "I—I really have no idea where that came from."

Stefan rubbed his forehead to ease some of the tension and gave her a sad smile. "I think I might have an idea." Elena was apprehensive now—nothing seemed to be adding up. Stefan was being more cryptic than normal, this place was alarmingly unfamiliar, and she'd been so certain that her final breath underwater would be the last she'd ever take.

Stefan seemed to be steeling himself with the strength to address her question as the pained look of guilt spread across his face. "Elena, when you were in the hospital with a concussion, it was far worse than Meredith let on. She fed you vampire blood to heal a cerebral hemorrhage, you would've died otherwise."

She looked up at him quizzically, trying to make sense of it. "She fed me vampire blood to heal me? Then w—", she broke off abruptly, aghast in horror as the realizations started to make more sense. "I died. She fed me vampire blood, and I-I died." She felt her arms shaking and her breath coming in short gasps. There was a tightness in her chest that she couldn't describe, her mind flooded with fears and questions she really didn't want answers to.

"Matt… is he okay?"

Stefan nodded solemnly. "He's fine; I got him out in time, he recovered fast."

Elena hesitated slightly. "And Jeremy? Does he… know where I am?"

The pity on Stefan's face was nearly suffocating her. She didn't need the compassion right now; she needed answers. It was not a pleasant sense of irony that after the past year they'd had, the one time she needed him to be stoic and unemotional, he couldn't give it to her. "He's at your house; Caroline, Bonnie and Tyler are all there with him, so he's safe. Yes, he knows what's happened." Stefan took a sharp, deep breath and she could sense the long-winded and unnecessary apology before she heard it. "Elena, I shouldn't have let this happen, I should've been stronger. I'm so sorry, I never meant—"

"Stop; please, just stop." Elena wasn't sure if it was her exasperated tone of voice or the directness of her statement that caused him to pause, but he lapsed into silence at the sound of her voice. "I asked you to save Matt. You're not allowed to feel guilty for an unexpected consequence, okay? Even if I'd known this would happen, I still would've insisted you save him."

Stefan's skepticism was immediate. "Really?"

Elena relented and wondered the same thing herself. Placating Stefan's guilt had become something of a default setting in her, and she wasn't sure if she fully meant that sentiment or whether she was trying to soothe his regret. In the fifteen seconds it took for her to fall unconscious after watching Stefan take Matt, she'd made peace with the hardships of her life, and fully accepted the inevitability of her death. She'd successfully evaded it numerous times, but at what cost? Everyone she loved died because of her. She figured if she died for everyone she loved, it was a fair trade off.

But this was not death. This was something far, far worse.

"I don't know," she conceded. "But what good does it do to wonder that now?"

Stefan gave a weak, halfhearted smile. "Not much, I guess."

"Where's Damon?" She asked after a long pause. "Is he… if you're here, that means Klaus' death can't have caused the death of his bloodline."

"It didn't, thankfully," Stefan confirmed. "Damon was…" Stefan began, the frown lines in the crease of his forehead becoming more pronounced, "He was here earlier. We… got into a disagreement, and he left. Said he was headed home, I guess."

"A disagreement about what?" Elena asked, but she was fairly sure she already knew the answer.

"It's not important right now, we'll deal with it later."

Elena wanted to protest, but she couldn't find the words to argue with. Feeling a bit more strength in her limbs than when she'd first woken up, she sat up on the metal slab and looked around at the dreary morgue she found herself in. Stefan was surveying her with a puzzling expression.

"You're taking this much calmer than I thought you would," he bluntly commented.

Elena laughed distractedly. "Then I'm a far better actress than I give myself credit for, because I'm all over the place right now."

There was that damn tight, overly concerned smile again, and she had the unbearable need to just smack it right off his face. She remembered when she was nine and her fifty-year old forth grade teacher Mrs. Higgins was pregnant the majority of the school year and had proceeded to act like a doting grandmother one day and a horrible drill sergeant the next. She'd asked Kelly Donavon about it one day while eating sandwiches in the park with Matt and Vicki, and she'd commented that 'pregnancy makes everyone get weird mood swings and act like a bitch' while Vicki countered with, 'Yeah, and my mom just never got over that stage', to which she and Matt had collapsed into collective giggles. She wondered inattentively if pregnancy mood swings were comparable with transitioning into a vampire mood swings.

"Well, we have to start somewhere. Talk it out; what are you feeling, what are you thinking?"

Elena eyed him warily. "Well, my mind is all over the place. Half of the time I have all these disturbingly violent thoughts that I can't make sense of, and the other half my mind gets caught in random tangents that I can't make sense of either. My throat is so dry, talking actually hurts. I'm craving meat like I never have in my life."

"Well, all of that is normal—"

Elena scoffs. "Nothing about this is normal. I don't want it to be."

"You shouldn't have to have it b—"

"But it is," Elena insisted. "I can't change it, right? I mean… I've heard you talk about it before. It's a decision that everyone makes. Feed or die? Because I'm dead." Her anger subsides for a moment, the reality of her blasé statement hitting her with a force she wasn't expecting. She blinks away the forming tears in her eyes she wasn't even aware of. She laughs nervously, but they sound decisively like sobs after a few seconds. "I'm dead," she states again, this time with much more force and emotion.

"Elena, you can get through this. I know you can. When you want something to work, you have an unrivaled will and determination that most people can't dream of…"

"What if I don't want it to work?" Elena asked suddenly, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the metal in an effort to focus on something other than the burning hunger in the pit of her stomach. "Will it work then?"

"Elena, that's a decision only you can make. It's rare that anyone will ever choose to be a vampire—it's something that happens to you. You have to choose whether you push through it or let the fear of uncertainty reign over it. But Elena, you can be a vampire without letting it define who you are."

"Can you really?" Elena countered back. "You have to kill to maintain a life source, Stefan. How can that not define you?"

Stefan ran a sweaty palm through his mussed hair and regarded her with sad and tired eyes. "I can't seem to do it, but that doesn't mean it isn't possible. You are not me. Vampires are capable of good, Elena, their will to do good just has to be stronger than their impulses. It's not something most people can achieve."

"And you think I could?" She asks, this time genuinely listening.

"I can't say for certain, no one can. Do you think you could?"

Elena was quiet now, deep in introspection. "Stefan, can you do something for me?"

"Anything," he replied immediately.

"Can you find Elijah for me? Get him to come here and talk to me?"

Judging by his facial expression, that was one of the last things Stefan had been expecting. "Elijah?" He asked, taken aback. "I don't know if that's such a good idea, Elena-"

"I need to make a decision. He's what I need to help me make it." Her voice was sharper and more composed than he'd heard it in a long time. He knew there were hundreds of ways this could end in disaster—they'd both just indirectly assisted to the death of his brother, after all—but he couldn't dare deny her the request when she sounded so certain in her conviction.

Stefan's voice was nowhere near as confident when he assented to her questioning glance, "I'll make it happen."

_So lock the windows,_

_and bolt the door,_

_'cause i've got enough problems,_

_without creating more._

Kol really abhorred Mystic Falls. It wasn't just a passive dislike, either. Unlike his other—more sentimentally inclined, although he'd never dare to say it in front of any of them—siblings, he felt no yearning for the nostalgic comforts of his birthplace. It was all trite foolishness in his mind, the way his siblings seemed to revolve their eternal lives around this dreadfully boring town. Niklaus was attempting to set up a base for an army of hybrid freaks in a town littered with young, self-righteous vampires who would oppose him. It was completely nonsensical, and he wondered if he was the only one of his siblings who had noticed the decline in Niklaus' intelligence since the onset of this 21st century.

Admittedly, outside of Mystic Falls and aside from the stupidity it seemed to infringe on his brother, he was quite enjoying the 21st century. He had been a frequent visitor—and often beneficiary, he wasn't ashamed to admit—to the old brothels of 19th century London. The modern version of these brothels, which he quickly caught on were referred to as 'night clubs', were a tasty treat he didn't object to over-indulging in. Although the music sounded like a mixture of an injured monkey and a screeching Bex being denied a trip to a clothing outlet, the girls were loose, provocative, and the best part? They didn't even charge for their promiscuity, nor did they seem to be in need of donations, if the broad shouldered monstrosities they called 'bouncers' were any indication.

So when a text on his new IPhone—(the title of such a device was still a mystery to him, and when Rebekah had e-mailed him the webpage of a company known as 'Apple', he became even more confused that a prestigious and high-grossing company would willingly designate a name for itself that derived from a fruit)—alerted to him to a distress call from the aforementioned sister, he could hardly wait to board a plane—(another fascinatingly interesting new ritual that he'd love to familiarize himself with, particularly the concept of flight attendants and a practice known as the 'Mile High Club')—and return to the desolate dump of suburbia otherwise known as Mystic Falls.

He would bet good money that Rebekah's only dire need stemmed from the online clothing service sold out of some obscure color choice on a pair of obscenely high and tacky high heels. If she wanted some good shopping, wouldn't it make sense to a logical and rational being of higher intelligence to come to New York City—a land of magical shopping establishments on some strip known as 'Fifth Avenue', at least according to last night's dinner before he silenced her with a bite to the neck—rather than to blather on about the inefficiency of the 'World Wide Web' and a weird contraption known as a 'mouse'?—(It didn't take long to come to terms with the fact that these 21st century humans had a distinct affinity for naming inanimate objects after animals and fruits alike).

He arrived in Richmond at about half past noon and grabbed a bite in the form of an overly chatty and oh so willing redhead named Susan who just couldn't wait to get to Barbados and hop on the dicks of all the gorgeous men she planned to meet at her best friend Cindy's wedding where she was serving as Maid of Honor—(unfortunately, the wedding party would have to go without the scrumptious redhead and her less than savory word choices, but really he was doing the entire island of Barbados _and_ the happy couple an honourable service, no doubt).

He took in the familiar surroundings of the mansions sprawling gardens—(he found it garish and unnecessary, but of course his alpha male brother always found juvenile pleasures in the ego boost of the simpleton's awe)—with his lip curled in distaste. Collectively, his family owned hundreds of mansions, castles and estates across every continent, and yet Niklaus deemed Mystic Falls, VA and an overly tawdry mansion a suitable home base.

He hung his coat in the foyer and grabbed a bag of AB negative—(while Kol adamantly refused to drink most bagged blood vampires were so fond of in this century, he would begrudgingly admit that a warmed bag of AB negative was as close to the vein as he could get for impromptu snacking)—before plopping down on the parlor sofa and closing his eyes.

"Bekah?" He scoffed when he heard no response and flipped his feet onto the coffee table—(he made sure to purposefully leave dirt indents on the glass, as Niklaus' beet red face was some of the best entertainment this insipid town had to offer). "I hope you know that you take this situation for granted, dear sister. Contrary to what the evidence might show, I'm not your beck and call boy."

Rebekah appeared hovering outside the door frame, her arms firmly wrapped around her chest, eyes rimmed with puffy red and mascara marks streaming down her cheeks. Kol was in front of her instantly, pushing a lock of blonde hair away from her face. He had seen his sister annoyed, terrified and enraged on numerous occasions, but it had been countless centuries since he could recall her this visibly upset.

"What happened, Rebekah?"

She shook her head vehemently, collapsing into an upholstered red chair next to the roaring fireplace. She stared into the embers spitting sparks onto the cool granite tile, leaving Kol to survey her dispassionate form in confusion.

"I did not fly half way across the country to this backyard pit of suburbia to watch you engage in a staring contest with a fireplace, Bex. You take advantage of my willingness to appease your every whim, and I think you'd ought to ex-"

"Nik is dead," she whispered, her voice unnervingly hollow and defeated. "Mother fashioned a human into a hunter, capable of taking us all down, and with us, the entire vampire race." As she looked up at Kol, a sob escaped and shook her shoulders, "The bastard killed Nik, Kol. He's gone."

He thinks that were it not for the honesty and sincerity in Elena's eyes as she spoke her risky request, she might've been purposefully sending him on a suicide mission, blind and defenseless, as a sort of twisted punishment and retribution for his impulsive decisions. But he firmly reminds himself that Elena is not Damon—that Elena would never stoop to something as petty as revenge—and that her request stems from desperation and naivety, not intentional cruelty. As he stares at the intricate brass knocker adorned on the front door of the Mikaelson Mansion however, he can't help but feel that Elena's intentions don't diminish the uncertainty of his newest endeavor.

He had no intention to linger outside and listen in, but the distinct sound of sobs from inside froze his hand from moving another inch. It was Rebekah; he knew it intuitively without having to consider other possibilities. He involuntarily cringed at her words—(_'The bastard killed Nik…'_). It had been a very long time since Stefan had ever associated 'Nik' with 'Klaus', but he couldn't deny that the majority of his compartmentalization of Nik—(his old best friend and confidante)—and Klaus—(the hybrid monster that took everything from him)—was entirely purposeful.

It wasn't a matter of regretting the time he spent with Nik and Rebekah in the 20's—(regardless of his insistence that he would wish away that friendship were he given the opportunity, it would never be true)—but rather, some residual resentment that he was compelled in the first place. Over the course of that year of his life, he'd grown to trust and admire Nik in ways he'd never felt for anyone before, and he'd foolishly assumed the same in return.

The next time he saw Nik, he was merely a copy; a deranged and hollow shadow known as 'Klaus' that was a pale imitation of the man he used to be. He would deny it until his last damned day, but he had never hated Nik for the horrors he inflicted on Elena; he would never hate Nik for ruining the best chance of a relationship he'd ever had; he would never hate Nik for destroying the life he'd built in Mystic Falls.

But he would _always_ hate Nik for choosing to run and disparaging their friendship, their brotherhood—their _trust_.

"Salvatore, right? Are you the impulsive and pathetic one or the woe-is-me ripper boy-wonder?" The smooth, amused voice jolted Stefan back to reality, and he stood up a little straighter with a sharp intake of breath. "I can never seem to differentiate between the two of you, to be quite honest," Kol continued, a lazy smirk on his lips as he leaned against the door frame.

"We've met," Stefan muttered coldly, "Several times."

"Mhm, I'm aware," Kol assented. "However, that gives no credence for why I should remember you. You Salvatores are a somewhat bland lot, you know; what exactly should be memorable about you compared to the other hundreds of guilt-ridden and terribly uninteresting vampires?"

Stefan raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "You seem oddly chirpy and sarcastic, if you consider the circumstances."

Kol's lip quirked in wry amusement. "Bold move, Salvatore. However, something tells me your impromptu stop-by was not motivated by some juvenile desire to gloat over my brother's death. Were that the case, I'd have expected to find a different Salvatore loitering on our doorstep. So…" He takes a pause, enjoying the younger vampire's clear discomfort. "May I help you? Unless, of course, you're in the midst of a mid-life crisis, and have decided that your eternal life lacks such profound meaning that you've deemed the Girl Scouts a worthy cause to dedicate your devotion towards? If so, I must demand that you adorn the proper attire if you want my business."

Stefan gave a despondent chuckle, but before he could properly retort to Kol's snark, a whip of blonde hair flashed before his eyes and Rebekah stood before him, her eyes narrowed with unbridled hatred and her expression of utmost displeasure. "This is a family matter Stefan, don't you think after what you've done to our family that you could at least grant us such a simple courtesy?"

"Courtesy?" Stefan growled in disbelief at her audacity. "You killed my girlfriend, I think the 'common courtesy' ship has long sailed between us."

Rebekah shrugged nonchalantly. "An eye for an eye then, I suppose. Yet, it is neither myself nor any of my family who dares to intrude on your grieving, is it? I think this speaks for itself."

Stefan nodded despite himself, and gave a short, terse reply. "I am not here on any malevolent agenda, I am simply delivering a message. Elena wishes to speak to Elijah, and I don't have the means of contacting him myself. If you choose not to tell him, that's your business. I'm sorry if that infringes on family matters, but with my role in the situation Elena now finds herself in, I thought it was necessary to give her at least that."

Rebekah let out a bark of a laugh and rolled her eyes. "The pristine little doppelganger is a vampire now, then? Well congratulations on your new pet and good luck in the inevitable battle royale between you and Damon for her affections, but if you think we'll stand by passively and let another doppelganger inflict a hold on Elijah, you're far more naïve than you used to be." With that, she stomped back into the house, not sparing Stefan or Kol another glance.

Stefan turned to walk away, but Kol stopped him dead in his tracks. "Who's blood was it, out of curiosity? I imagine it must've been Damon's, right? He's the impulsive one who'd sacrifice her wishes to keep her with him, or so I've been told." Kol's smile was positively sadistic. "That must be awful for you; I've heard that the immediate maker of a new vampire can often strongly affect the inherent behaviors of their bloodline."

Stefan pauses, his face a shade paler than before. "It's not Damon's blood. I haven't got a clue whose blood it is, no one does. A doctor gave it to her to heal her injuries hours before she drowned, and not even she knows, or if she does, she won't tell me." He sighed in irritation and glared at Kol. "Any other questions or may I be relieved of the interrogation?"

Kol's eyebrow shot up in surprise, and Stefan's suspicions heightened. "A doctor, you say?"

"Meredith Fell. She uses vampire blood to heal her patients often, although who knows where she gets such a consistent stock of it."

Kol's eyes were dancing with mischievous satisfaction, and Stefan shifted his feet uncomfortably; there was nothing remotely reassuring about that. "Well, for the sake of you and your merry band of misfits, I sure do hope that I'm incorrect in what I've heard about new vampires and their bloodlines. For who knows what kind of ruthless and monstrous vampire sweet little Elena could've been made from?"

Stefan took a step forward, his voice low and threatening. "Are you trying to intimidate me? I advise you keep the backhanded comments to yourself."

Kol surveyed Stefan with an impassive expression before promptly bursting into laughter. "Do all you rippers lack a sense of humor or are you just a particularly special case?" He clapped Stefan on the shoulder and gave him a broad grin. "Relax Salvatore, go back to your girl and do try to remove that permanent scowl from your face. It's highly unattractive, how did you even manage to get your girl in the first place?" Kol promptly shut the door in his face before Stefan could get a word in edgewise and listened with a satisfied smirk as the vampire stormed off the property, huffing the entire way. When Kol was sure Stefan was out of earshot, he sat down on the parlor chaise and slung his arm around Rebekah's shoulder.

"You know what this means, don't you Bex?"

Rebekah nodded distractedly. "Stefan Salvatore is alive; how is it possible? You swear you saw Nik turn Mary with your own eyes, and I witnessed her turning Rose myself as well." Rebekah stared at the opposite wall, lost in her searching for meaning of this new development.

"It means that Niklaus is not dead; it means that he cannot be." Her head snapped up at once to stare at her brother in disbelief and shock. "And," he went on, a triumphant smirk on his lips, "The Golden Girl of Mystic Falls is created from my blood." He picked up a decanter filled with rum and passed it to Rebekah, her eyes still wide and movements unresponsive. "If that's not positively hilarious, I can't think of what is."

Rebekah was still gaping at him. "How is that even possible? You've been gone from Mystic Falls for months."

"Nothing you need to fret about, dear sister." He brushed back a strand of her hair and chided her as he took a swig of drink. "Smile, Bekah; frowning is not a good look on you. Niklaus is alive, and the Salvatore's tug of war rope is a vampire created by me. I fail to see the problem in this; I for one find it deliciously priceless." He leaned back and took another celebratory swig, the corners of his mouth turned in amusement.

"Mystic Falls just got a lot more interesting."

**Notes: **Next time we'll be introduced to Damon's storyline, as he reflects by means of brooding and bourbon, and receives a (not-so) surprising guest at the Boarding House. Also included will be the Elena/Elijah interaction in which they will have a meaningful and emotional discussion/debate/argument on morality and vampires.

I am going to attempt to set up a schedule to have an update for this story every _other_ Friday night/Saturday morning. If you follow any of my other stories or know my bad habits, you will realize this might be a pipe dream. I suppose we'll all find out the Friday after next. :)

Thanks for reading; I love and welcome any comments, suggestions or critiques.


	2. II

Notes: I have no idea what to say, except that I am so ridiculously apologetic for the delay of this chapter. I could give you a million and one excuses-and trust me, I've got them-but there's really no excuse for having strung you guys along for that long, it's just not right. Although I am not nearly as proud of this outcome as I'd hoped to be, I certainly hope that you all find something in this chapter that at least partially makes up for how long it's been since its original publication, and I sincerely hope that you guys have way more fun reading this than I did writing it. About halfway through this chapter, I realized that I'd _never _written Elijah before in my three + year history of writing in this fandom, and that was a huge surprise that I hadn't expected to realize, and it in turn caused a _huge _bout of writer's block I simply could not kick. Add in that, some seriously de-motivating real-life drama, depression about the state of _canon _TVD and pre-class studying, and well... there you go.

With that said, given that this is my first time writing Elijah, I'd absolutely love some specific feedback on not only EE's entire last scene, but how Elijah's character came out in general. I'm very nervous about this-not just Elijah, or the Elejah relationship even, but the chapter as a whole and each part in separate-so please do be kind, but don't hesitate to critique, as long as it is constructive critique and not flaming. Constructive criticism is always beneficial, no matter how much or how little or about what. No one benefits from flaming. Please let me know what you guys think, your feedback means the world to me. Without further ado...

**Disclaimer: **The Vampire Diaries, its characters, plot lines and premise belong to LJ Smith, Kevin Williamson, Julie Plec, The CW, Warner Brothers and their affiliates. I do not own _anything _detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit by these writings. The song lyrics depicted in this chapter, the former chapter and the title come from the song 'Devastation and Reform' and belong to the band 'Relient K', the writers of the song itself, and 2007 Capitol Records. All rights reserved to respective parties.

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_I feel like I was born,_

_for devastation and reform,_

_destroying everything i love and the worst part is,_

_i pull my heart out, reconstruct;_

_but in the end it's nothing but,_

_a shell of what i had when i first started._

In the height of its glory days, the Veritas Estate was the most sought after and admired piece of land in Mystic Falls. A thirty-four year old Giuseppe Salvatore ordered a team of three-dozen men to undertake a five-year construction of what would later become the pride and worth of his family. He was a ruthless and stoic man, a jack-of-all-trades whose patriotism and fierce loyalty knew no bounds. He was also however, cruel, unsympathetic and selfish to absurd extremes. His immense fortunes stemmed from striking gold—quite literally—in the North Georgian Mountains as a young man in the 1820s. The Veritas Estate was completed in the blistering summer months of 1839, and he wed a beautiful and very young Italian Immigrant who spoke little to no English in autumn of the same year. Within twelve months, the just nineteen-year-old Adelaisa had given birth to Giuseppe's first son, and she poured every ounce of her love and devotion into two things—her home and her son.

There were many occurrences when Adelaisa would not speak a word to her husband for stretches of as long as a week. Damon would implore his mother to get along with father, but she would smile sadly and explain to him that not all unions were products of a mutual love. His mother was insistent on lavish birthday celebrations every August 26th, claiming that Giuseppe's money ought to be put to good use, and a celebration of the best day of her life was certainly cause for such a use.

For the entire decade of the 1840s, August 26th became known in the new township of Mystic Falls as Damon Salvatore's Birthday Celebration. Adelaisa would spend every dime and penny Giuseppe possessed on spoiling her son crazy on that one special day of the year.

On August 26th, 1851, an eleven-year old Damon Salvatore attended a funeral, his head bowed in silent remembrance of his mother and his hand squeezed tightly within the sweaty palms of his kid brother. He would shake the hand of Jonathon Gilbert while the man expressed his meaningless condolences; he would try to stifle his smirk while Honoria Fell cried in a fit of hysterics over what a great woman his mother was, all the while wondering what the harpy would say if she knew all the inappropriate names his mother had attributed to her; he would smile at a teary eyed and despondent Stefan while he relayed to his brother the story of a drunken Thomas Brichton Lockwood being kicked in his genitals by Mary Dresden out by the falls a few weeks back; he would shift uncomfortably in his formal dress shoes while Giuseppe gave a rousing and heartfelt speech—(a terrible and dishonorable lie)—on the grand love he shared with his beautiful, young wife. He would cry himself to sleep wrapped in the wool blanket his mother had sewn for him years before, inhaling the deeply unique scent of her rich perfume.

Most importantly of all, he would never again for the next century and a half of his life attribute the date of August 26th with anything of significance.

On August 26th, 2012, Damon Salvatore lie on a yellowed, dingy patch of grass beneath the stars, eyes closed and clutching a bottle of bourbon, surrounded by overgrown brush and wild thorns—the mere ruins of the legacy that was once the Veritas Estate.

The structure that took three-dozen men, years of manual labor and a lot of sweat and tears to manifest was now reduced to nothing more than scattered bits of a broken foundation in the middle of nowhere. The night was eerily quiet, hot and humid, the air thick with a light settling of fog.

Eyes still firmly shut, Damon brought the bottle of bourbon to his lips and as he drank, some of the alcohol spilled onto his chest. He disregarded it, letting the cold liquid seep into the dark fabric of his shirt without so much as a care. He'd been lying there for several hours—days; was it still Wednesday?—and had no desire to trudge back to the Boarding House, lest baby bro and his new vampire sweetheart were _reacquainting_ on Damon's Persian Rug. He could always fall back on the tired and true fuck and dump, but he was fairly certain he'd lapped the entire female population of Mystic Falls' over-eighteens by now—(excluding aforementioned vampire sweetheart and the judgey witch bitch)—and he didn't do seconds.

He pulled himself off the ground, brushing off stains of grass and dirt on the dark jeans slung low on his hips. If you asked any vampire on earth what the most satisfying aspect of their nature was, you'd almost always get the predictable and cliché response of the blissful thrill of the run. Damon derived no pleasure from the inane vampire speed running the majority felt so enamored with; in fact, he found it quite trivial. Whilst hunting, he much preferred to seduce his victims into a false sense of security rather than run circles around their baffled, wide-eyed forms as if some sort of tacky low-budget horror movie villain.

He walked at a relatively normal pace, taking intermittent sips of bourbon as he took inventory. A secluded little bungalow stood tucked into an inconspicuous corner of some brush, a single light illuminated on an old, wooden front porch. It would be far too easy to deceive the home's only occupant—(more than likely an elderly widow on her last legs enjoying the peace and quiet of the remote outdoors with the company of her dusty books and stuffed cats)—into showing him hospitality, but he was sure he could find a more suitable meal with a much better aftertaste.

Judging by the shine of the stars and the dark shade of night, he'd wager a guess that it was approximately 1 in the morning by now. Saint Stefan would either be wrapped in bed sheets, immersed in nauseating monogamy with a particularly infuriating Elena Gilbert, or else stretched out awkwardly on an uncomfortable waiting room armchair. Needless to say, Damon was strongly in favor of the latter.

He could not properly analyze every possible scenario for what he would find upon entering the Boarding House, but he was certain that a very much alone Elena Gilbert ransacking through his liquor cabinet was somewhere very low on the list of potentials. She either hadn't noticed his entrance, or was choosing to ignore it completely, as her head was still firmly buried in inspecting the various bottles in his collection.

His tone was far harsher than he would've liked, but he couldn't deny that he was less than pleased with her. "Looking to get a little drunk, 'Lena?" No answer; she hadn't even attempted to turn and face him. "Stefan isn't hitting the sweet spot tonight, hmm?" Still no answer; not even an indication that she could so much as hear him.

He growled in frustration, in no mood to deal with her bullshit cold shoulder tonight. "Elena!"

She finally turned to face him now, her facial expression entirely impassive, her eyes seeming to pierce straight into his soul. He forgot every single thread of irritation at once and swept her into his arms, murmuring into her hair as he breathed out an audible sigh of relief. "Are you alright; how are you dealing? Have you fed? Fuck 'Lena, you have no idea how worried I've been." The overpowering scent of her hair filled his nostrils, enveloping his senses and usurping his entire rational thought pattern. His posture froze cold—Elena's scent had always been sweet; a delicious but subtle mixture of apples, vanilla and warm cinnamon. This intoxicatingly intense aroma of jasmine, lavender and that unique hint of spice were attributed to someone _very_ different.

"Katherine," he groaned in irritation, his face twisted into a bitter scowl but his tone holding none of the scorn and malice she usually received, but rather possessing a sort of almost resigned acceptance. He couldn't muster the energy to snark with her, but she did not seem too off-put by his reluctance to engage her in banter.

"Relax," Katherine admonished with a terse bluntness, walking unconcerned back towards his liquor cabinet and grabbing a dark bottle of Merlot and two wine glasses, pouring a generous amount of liquid into each. "I haven't come with any underhanded intentions, believe it or not. I just figured you might enjoy a nice nightcap between old friends." She tilted her head slightly and gave him an inquisitive, provocative smile, her arm stretched towards him with one of the filled wine glasses, as though it were a peace offering.

Damon took it warily, but didn't lower his guard. "No ulterior motives, that's what you expect me to believe? So says the woman with the pin-straight hair, loose jeans and tattered keds." He scoffed and took a long sip from the wine glass, noting with bitter disappointment that it tasted quite unremarkable after the harsh burn of bourbon he'd been guzzling down. "Forgive me if I'm inclined to believe your intentions aren't entirely pure, _Miss Katherine_," he taunted sardonically.

"Ugh, please," Katherine waved him off with an unamused scoff, "_This_—while annoyingly unflattering—is an unfortunately necessary measure," she motioned to her significantly downplayed appearance. "You might be surprised to learn the lengths at which any ignorant dumb-ass in this town will bend over backwards for you if they think you're _Elena Gilbert_," she gave him a cruel little smile, "It's pathetically disgusting, but ultimately convenient." Her eyes darkened in irritation as she took a small sip of her wine and settled into the parlor sofa, "You can't take chances with compulsion in this town anymore, thanks to you and your infiltration of that idiotic Council. Bravo, Damon, really," she quipped darkly, "It's quite ingenious the way you've equipped those leeches to be far more of a nuisance than they ever should've been…"

Damon raised a dark eyebrow with a patronizing laugh. "Are you telling me that you've adopted Elena's wardrobe because you're running scared of a couple of hopped up amateur hunters with worse aim than my drunkard father after a quart of whiskey? Geez Pierce, you're losing your edge if you expect me to fall for _that_ bullshit."

Katherine glared at him, fighting the sliver of a smile that was threatening to break through. Damon had always had a quick, sharp tongue from the moment she'd met him all those years ago, and it was perhaps _this_ more than anything else that had kept her habitually coming back to him against her best interest. But that was way back then, with a different set of concerns and a different approach to their relationship, as though it were so far removed that it had existed only on a separate plane of reality-it seemed almost _quaint_ looking back on it now with the obstacles they were currently facing. Nowadays, his penchant for conversational wit was mostly just irritating, but there were those occasional moments where it was entertaining, dare she say familiar and _comforting, _to some extent. Damon's reactions to her were consistently as far from predictable as possible, and it was such a welcome change from every other uselessly uninspired individual she regularly interacted with.

"If you actually bothered to take anything I taught you to heart and took the time to plan your actions beforehand instead of running impulsively into the fire like the hot-headed savage you act like, you'd be able to see the merits in having trustworthy informants in Mystic Falls. Of course, that's nearly _impossible_ if the whole town is suspicious of you—the whole damn Council practically maps out the residences of every new citizen in town, so they aren't trusting _anyone_ who isn't a founding family member. Therefore, it benefits me for them to view me as Elena; it's hardly a matter of being _scared_. I'm exploiting their ignorance for my own benefit, and trust me, it's working flawlessly."

Damon surveyed her skeptically, trying to figure out what her motive was—she always has a motive; whether it may be potentially lethal was up for debate, but she never did anything without an ulterior motive, and if she thought she could fool him into thinking otherwise, she misjudged how well he knew her. He decided not to press her for information on her plans with the Council, but stored that bit of information away for later.

"Informants, hmm? And what do these lovely little spies spill for you, Kat? The seedy underbelly of Mystic Falls, I presume. The Housewives of Chesterfield County?" He grinned suggestively. "I guess if that's the case, you'll be privy to the knowledge that Carol Lockwood forced Bethany Nichols to sell her rather lucrative stockholdings in Victoria's Secret for an outrageously low price on nothing more than our ever dutiful Mayor's threat of Mrs. Nichols losing her seat as chair of the Town Beautification Committee—can you honestly imagine, what a travesty that would be?!" Damon gripped his chest melodramatically in mock horror, as though it were ghastly to even contemplate.

Anyone with a semi-functioning brain knew that Katherine Pierce was a bitch—cold, selfish, cruel and completely unlovable—and Damon wished he could agree with them, but it always proved difficult when she laughed like _that_. Katherine had so many different variants of laughter, and each one served her a distinct purpose, but it was the most uninhibited and rare of them all—an actual, genuine laugh of humorous appreciation—that was undeniably the most captivating. It wasn't often that he was given an opportunity to bear witness to it, but on those rare occasions, he couldn't deny the warmth and love that seemed to encompass his entire being. He could try to deny the truth and assert stubbornly that he did not harbor (pitifully self-destructive) feelings for her and instead maintain his cold, detached disposition, but bearing the weight of emotional armor _that_ heavy became exhausting. He couldn't uphold that shield anymore, couldn't keep up the mentally draining façade—not when he had so many other things taxing on his worries.

He could allow himself to enjoy the melodious lilt of her beautiful laugh without any sort of repercussion; for one thing, it's not as if she won't be gone within the hour anyway—she always left him out to dry, for better or worse, and if there was _one_ thing reliable and predictable about her, it was that. He was no longer naïve when it came to her—he knew exactly what to expect from her, and without expectation, there was no disappointment. After the past century and a half, he would not be so weak as to fall for any of her insidious schemes anymore—she had lost that power over him a long time ago, and if she foolishly tried to exert it, she was in for one hell of a surprise.

Katherine was still giving him a wry little smile when she spoke, "Mhm, as edge-of-your-seat engrossing as Carol Lockwood's lingerie investments surely are, it wasn't exactly the news or gossip I was alluding to."

Damon frowned, not sure he was comfortable with the direction this conversation was headed. "I imagine then it would not be presumptuous to assume you are referring to Elena's—" he paused, taking a long sip of his wine and analyzing Katherine's reaction, "—precarious situation."

"Precarious situation?" Katherine inquired, an eyebrow raised with an expression on her face landing somewhere between amusement and hauteur. "Let's leave the cryptic insinuations to the professionals and at least _try_ to have a semi-honest conversation. Yes, I'm aware that my poor little doppelganger is hanging within that parlous balance of humanity and vampirism. How could I _not_ know, I am impersonating her on a daily basis, after all—I _make_ it my business to know where she is."

She cocked her head slightly, a condescending smile on her lips as she continued. "How long do you bet she lasts before she dies in a fit of hysterics, refusing to prey on innocent humans because her inane morality demands it? Care to make a wager? I daresay it'll be far easier to impersonate her if she dies in transition, since that idiotic Fell woman will obviously hasten to cover it up. It's a wonder that woman hasn't been sued for malpractice yet, really."

Damon didn't respond immediately, clenching his wine glass just that tiny bit harder. When he spoke, his voice was cold and resolute. "I think you should leave."

Katherine did not look at all convinced, still remaining firmly nestled in her comfortable lounge position on the parlor sofa. "Aw, well that's a real shame. Here I was thinking we were bonding. Did I say something wrong?" She asked innocently—if anything Katherine did could ever be considered innocent, even in jest.

Damon just scowled in response. "You're a bitch, you know that?"

Katherine rolled her eyes and set down her glass to turn fully to face him. "I think the real question is why don't _you_ know that, or have you merely forgotten? Why, after years and years of knowing exactly who I am do you continue to act as though I should be ashamed of concealing my true nature? Even when you were a human, I made absolutely no effort to be fake with you—you knew _exactly_ who I was, and how much of a 'bitch' I was, and if anything, all it did was make you love me more. So if you're expecting me to feel any sort of remorse for acting the way I always have, you're wasting my time."

"What is the point of this? Why are you here, besides to taunt and berate me with your petty insults towards the people I love?"

Katherine laughed, but this time, it wasn't the genuine, honest laugh that he'd grown to adore despite his best efforts not to, but a patronizing laugh that sent chills down his spine. "People you love meaning _Elena_, am I wrong? You're an _idiot_, Damon. Do you honestly believe that girl will bring you anything but another century and a half of pathetic heartache?"

"She's not _you_," Damon spat back at her, his anger and frustration getting the best of him.

"Well, certainly not; she's far too naïve and trusting to be me, I think we all know that. But let me guarantee you something, Damon—Elena Gilbert will _break your heart_, just like I did. She may not strategize her manipulations the way I do—hell, she may not even do them consciously—but in the end, it won't matter whether she intended to play you or not. She'll either die in transition and retain that infuriating Saint pedestal she doesn't deserve, or she'll live an eternal vampire life choosing your brother and a life of bunny stew dinners over you, time and time again. If you expect anything different, you'll only be let down. Do yourself a favor and get the fuck over her before that happens, and save yourself the pointless despair over a relationship that never would've worked in the first place."

Damon sighed and stood up, fussing with his mussed, sweaty hair in the mirror in a lazy, halfhearted attempt to smooth it down. "I'm still failing to understand why anything regarding Elena and I even concerns you," he muttered harshly as he took off his leather jacket and hung it up. "Please don't tell me you're planning on pulling a redux on the whole 'Stay away from Elena or I'll rip this town apart until it rains blood' ordeal, 'cause I really don't have the patience for that shit."

Katherine shrugged noncommittally. "I personally don't really care what happens to her either way, or whether you want to spend your miserable eternity pining after her like a poor, sick puppy; I just thought you'd want to know how absolutely pathetic it makes you look. I have nothing against your little Virgin Mary, aside from the fact that her incessant moralizing of every situation is downright nauseating and that her profound lack of fashion sense is an absolute mockery to my legacy-" She trailed off, a smile playing at her lips as she heard Damon's derisive snort although his back was still turned. She began walking back over to the liquor cabinet, "Alright, I have no _murderous_ intentions towards the girl," she amended the statement as she topped off her drink, "I think that's far more than she deserves, really." Her tone was harsh and bitter as she added, "Let's just say that if she _does_ somehow make it through this transition, you'd better hope her acclimation is far smoother than mine was..."

Damon turned around to stare at her incredulously, abruptly taken aback by such a significant admission being stated so casually. He had often times as a human pressed Katherine for information regarding her turning, eager to understand and prepare for his own impending transition. He scowled, feeling nothing but agitation and scorn towards his far too enthusiastic former self. "You never told me anything about how you turned; I asked so many times, and you'd always brush me off-"

"For good reason," Katherine sharply cut him off. She grimaced unpleasantly and Damon got the uncomfortable premonition that perhaps he should've just let it lie; whatever she had been so reluctant to share with him way back then was clearly no easier to divulge now. She set the drink down on the glass in front of her, and it cracked under the force of the gesture. Damon would've been indignant if he wasn't so riveted by this clear display of out-of-character tension.

Her disposition changed so markedly from her usual persona of playful confidence and superiority, and understandably Damon felt more than a little apprehensive by the prospect of _anything_ that could make her act like this. "After I used Rose's blood to turn me, I spent the next thirty years drowning in the blood of thousands of privileged European men looking for a good time—I never stayed in one place too long, hopping around the continent every year or so after draining every last man desperate enough to stumble into a brothel, seeking a whore's company…" she smiled ruefully to herself, lost in her own reflection. "Hundreds became thousands quickly, and it was only a matter of time before that recklessness and impulsivity threatened to undo everything I'd worked so hard for."

She continued on as though he were not there, her lips pressed into a thin line and her gaze seeming to penetrate straight through him, causing him to wonder whether she was truly confiding in him or else subconsciously using him as some twisted confessional. "Elijah found me not long after that, tracking me couldn't have been that difficult. He struck me a bargain; confess that I loved him and that running was a mistake, and he would shelter me from Klaus... teach me to control the _bloodlust_," she scoffed and swished her drink back and forth absentmindedly, "As if he'd even had a _clue _what it really was_,"_ she spat bitterly. "So, of course, I lied and claimed that I _did_ love him. What else was I to do at that point? I'd proven too weak to deal with the transition myself, and I was left with no other option but to accept his intervention.

"But of course, reality set in quickly and I panicked. _I_ had managed to escape the role of sacrificial lamb to the oldest and most feared vampire in the world only to accept refuge in the arms of his brother? No, I was _far _better than that—if I could escape Klaus, I did not need anyone to grant me their asylum, especially not some love-struck fool. A month after I accepted his offer, I made a promise to myself: that I'd continue to run, and never stop until Klaus gave up, until I'd traced every pattern around the world twice over. And so I did—the very next morning, I left Elijah and I evaded his attempts to find me for over three centuries, my own instinctual determination to survive the only means of which to persevere through that raging, uncontrollable lust. It was not until November of 1864 that I caught wind of his presence again—residing as an orphaned guest in your father's home, donning an Englishman's name and touting the respects of Confederate America as the darling debutante I so convincingly portrayed."

"You…" Damon had a hard time vocalizing this train of thought, it had never even occurred to him before. "You ran because Elijah found you? Not because of the town conspiring against vampires…" he whispered to himself, trying to make sense of it.

"Oh _please_, you honestly thought that I ran from Mystic Falls because I was scared of your Father and _Jonathon Gilbert_? You offend me, Damon," she teased wryly, but her smile was forced and her casual wit falling short.

"I… I can't say I really thought about it much," he admitted truthfully, his tone taking on a bitter quality; "For a hundred and forty five years I thought you were trapped in the church ruins, desiccating from starvation and requiring _my _assistance," he laughed, throaty and emotional, his self-deprecation not lost on Katherine. "And for the past two, I've been a bit hung up on the whole 'It was always Stefan' admission, so forgive me for not feeling quite up to assessing your motivation," he spat with a bite of disdain in his voice.

The brief flicker of emotion in her eyes clearly resembled some form of regret, and he could've sworn that she very nearly flinched at his harsh accusation. "That's irrelevant, and not why I told you," she dismissed him a little too quickly. "Those first few decades, Damon—" she broke off with a sigh, her eyes exhibiting a worn, tired quality that he'd never seen before. "I don't have anything to quite compare it to. The strangest thing was that it was hardly even a _blood_lust—not in the traditional sense, not how you've ever experienced it or heard it described. No, it was this insatiable, uncontrollable drive to exhibit control—a _power_lust, in a sense. It had very little to do with the actual blood itself, it was this instinctive lust for authority, an impossible covet for a freedom that so starkly contradicted everything implicit in the very nature of being a supernatural entity created to die…"

Damon tried to appear unaffected, but the force and emotion of which she relayed this story was disconcerting. "Katherine, this isn't a Dr. Phil show nor am I your personal therapist; why the fuck do you think I'll care or listen to your whining and woes?"

"I'm not _whining, _Damon—you should know me better than that. I'm _warning _you."

"Warning me?" Damon repeated back, his unsteady voice betraying his unease.

"Well, since you seem particularly adamant on sticking around for Elena, I thought I'd do you the courtesy of a sneak peek at what you're signing up for," Katherine smiled in satisfaction, knowing that with this one simple spin of context, she'd regained all the cards back to her hand, as usual.

Damon's face paled considerably before he spoke again. "You think something similar will happen to Elena?"

Katherine smiled mysteriously, content that she was in the best possible position to pique his interest to her advantage. "I don't _think, _I _know, _and 'similar' is a bit of an understatement. You see, five-hundred years of plotting and planning is quite a long time, and I didn't spend it all gallivanting with rebellious Confederate rejects. No, I spent much of that time researching the mythology and origins behind the doppelganger; it's all quite fascinating, really. Where do you think our darling Isobel inherited such a profound apt for research?"

"Katherine, if you know something, she needs to know it," Damon asserted resolutely.

"Oh, don't fret, my dear; I do _very much _intend to have a conversation with the girl once she gets let out of isolation, if she survives long enough. Leave that to me, why don't you?" She tilted her head inquisitively, that playful air back with a dramatic impact. "Besides, I would think you'd have other priorities to focus on today of all days, no? You never were one for extravagant celebration though, were you?"

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion; could she really know what today was? It seemed impossible—possibly one of the _only _things he _hadn't_ shared with her during those more naïve times was his birth-date.

She stood up with such graceful poise that he'd hardly comprehended the movement before she was leaning unconcerned against the parlor room doorframe, that confident, cryptic smirk making its return. "You know, you distracted me with such intense discussion of doppelganger folklore that I very nearly forgot my reason for the visit."

Damon arched an eyebrow unimpressed, now nursing a pounding headache and wanting her to get to the point, doubting if she even knew how. When she unceremoniously produced a heavy-bound book and set it in front of him, he picked it up curiously, eyeing the title and cautiously running his thumb across the dusty book jacket.

He stared at her in blatant astonishment, taking in with warranted skepticism what appeared to be a genuine smile lighting her features, his eyes never straying from her curious gaze as he held the book with trembling hands and all too apparent trepidation. He flicked it open in haste and searched through its contents for proof of its authenticity, or perhaps evidence of the lack of it. With each turn of a page crease, it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his stubborn stance that the impromptu gift was simply another of her petty attempts at furthering her insidious and relentless mind games.

Ulterior motives for the unexpected gift aside, however, there was no discounting that he was holding an original copy of Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, penned in its native French, and—moreover, still—undeniably _his_ original copy, mysteriously stolen from his belongings during the last few months of his human life and subsequently forgotten over the course of a century. He gaped disbelieving at the small, scribbled cursive notes packed tight within the narrow margins on each and every page, the dark ink still as clear and legible as the day they'd been written. Inhaling a slow, deep breath, he allowed himself to be whisked away by the comfortingly familiar scent of those unique rag pulp pages. His conscious was flooded with images long since suppressed of harsh and lonely winter nights, studying as a cadet under Jackson in the gloomy prison otherwise referred to as the VMI.

It was with still trembling hands and a shaky tremor to his voice that he finally addressed Katherine, still perched languidly against the parlor room doorframe with that trademark casual indifference that she had so effortlessly perfected into its own art form. "What is this?" He asked softly, "Why would you give this to me?"

"It's a gift, Damon," she chastised with an amused lilt to her tone, her dark eyes shining with genuine mirth. "In most customs, it typically elicits a gesture of gratitude."

"A gift," he repeated slowly, as if the word were a foreign concept he was struggling to grasp. "A gift-from _you_, that already belonged to _me_..." he trailed off with a sarcastic laugh. "How do you have this, Katherine? Have you actually had it _all_ this time?"

Katherine's answering smile seemed almost sympathetic, and Damon's first impulse was to write it off as nothing but a deceiving trick of light-until she spoke. "I found a lot of those margin notes quite illuminating," she mused thoughtfully; "whoever wrote them had a very unconventional perception of Edmond and the state into which he drove himself mad with vengeance... held onto this abstract idea of revenge as justice and clung to it as if it were his last lifeline in a bitter reality devoid and stripped of purpose..." her lips quirked into a wry smile. "I spent the better part of a year adding some of my own notes in response, I think you'll notice, if you take the time to peruse it. I found some interesting connections between the Count and an impulsive, hot-headed savage I once knew..."

Damon was stunned; he had been expecting anything other than this from her random appearance in his parlor, but he had learned time after time that it was only _her_ who possessed the power to surprise and befuddle him so profoundly. He was an idiot for ever letting himself forget this fact. "It shocks me that you'd find the time to even _read_ a book, let alone write notes about it, what with the hectic schedule and laborious demands of all your manipulation schemes," he quipped in an attempt to divert attention away from his unease.

She raised a dark eyebrow and took the final sip of her Merlot. "It was sometime during the early 60s in Carinthia, Austria... beautiful place, settled around the East Alps and surrounded by this serene lake that stretches for miles-but really, beautiful views are captivating only for about two minutes before you realize how dreadfully boring everything else is," she laughed dryly.

Damon set the book down on the coffee table, careful to not take his eyes off Katherine in case she decided to make a quick get-away, and stood before her, his hands fidgeting at his sides, feeling remarkably like a nervous little boy, curious and entranced by the confident and intimidating woman with the smile that held every answer. "Why did you take it in the first place?" - ('_Why did you keep it for a hundred and fifty years?_')

But, as per usual, the confident and intimidating woman with the smile that held every answer provided him with nothing but more questions. She took a step back, grabbed her coat off the back of the arm chair it had been draped around and handed him her empty wine glass as she leaned forward and whispered into his ear, "Happy Birthday, Damon."

* * *

_An injury I'll cause with my own fist, it—_

_it seems to me to be slightly masochistic._

(Elena Gilbert is fifteen, eyes gleaming with a spark of effervescent mischief, clasping a vial of thick, crimson blood against her chest, and Caroline Forbes stares at her in a state of utter bewilderment and awe. The blonde has never been the squeamish type—unlike Bonnie who had furiously and adamantly refused to participate in this hospital summer volunteer program for incoming freshman—but even _she_ had to admit that the morbid fascination Elena displays with blood sometimes is just plain strange. And yet, she can't find it within her willpower to look away. It's almost curfew now—10 o'clock on the dot, not a second later with her drill sergeant of a mother posing as the friendly sheriff—and the moonlight is shining in its natural element—ominous, beautiful and downright terrifying.

The gleam of dark satisfaction that glimmers in Elena's eyes is accompanied by the slight curve of her lip that is all too familiar to Caroline. The brunette is intrigued by something, a smile widening on her face that's as innocently thoughtful as it is deviously worrisome. 'It's all a matter of perspective', Elena will assert to her blonde friend as they climb the fence over Jared Pitchken's yard to take a dip in his pool. 'Most people limit themselves to one perspective, 'cause that's what you're taught to do. I don't give myself the same restriction.' She leaves the statement hanging behind her, now too absorbed in a new idea or thought tangent to care if Caroline bothered to pick it up.

Caroline sits in English Class, uncharacteristically melancholy and detached as Mr. Benson rambles about the significance and usage of the oxymoron. She giggles at first because of the weird name, but as she listens she begins to think about Elena. Mr. Benson has his eyes narrowed on her, and she stares back at him, affronted by the random attention, before she realizes her hand was in the air. She stares at him long and hard for a moment before sputtering 'If someone were gracefully reckless, would that be an oxymoron?' and she doesn't hear the full extent of the man's answer, because she whips around to stare at the seat Elena should be smiling back from to find it empty. When she turns back to the front of the class, Mr. Benson has changed the topic and she can feel Matt Donavon's eyes burning a hole in the back of her head as she fumbles for a pencil in her make-up bag.

She finds herself in an awkward conversation with a Pastor at a church in North Carolina on one of her routine weekend visits to see her dad and Steven on their lake house. He's preaching something about the nature of the soul and reincarnation and she thinks he's a bit of a loon—(not to mention the fact that she thinks it's hilariously pointless that Steven is a man of such devout faith when her grandmother once told her that homosexuals worship depravity instead of divinity)—but she indulges the short, beady-eyed man because he seems lonely and Caroline considers herself the budding philanthropist of a new generation, as is the slogan on her 'President for Student Council' posters.

She listens to the man prattle on about the purity of the soul, and she finds herself again thinking of Elena. If there's one thing she understands about Elena that no one else does, it's this: the world isn't enough for her. She's restless, clawing at the restraints of small-town suffocation, and _that's _why she's so rebellious. Elena will break every rule, every constraint and every dictation just because she can and smile and dazzle her way through the whole thing until people resort to classifications of a 'severe attention addiction', but Caroline knows better. She knows better than anyone that there's something about Elena Gilbert that doesn't quite belong, something that's itching to find a purpose in everything purposeless. She knows that Elena is never satisfied, because she sees firsthand her constant struggle for meaning, a stimulation for a soul that's too restless to ever be content. She asks the short Pastor man whether he believes that there are any souls that are simply too restless to be at peace with themselves, and he espouses that every soul is restless to escape mortality and find the divine. She doesn't believe him; Elena's never held a lick of interest in the divine, and she knows that no one on earth is as restless as her best friend.

Two hours later, she's contemplating whether to indulge in an impulse buy of crimson red pumps or save the money for that gorgeous cream sweater she saw on display last month at a vintage shop in Richmond when her phone goes off on its loudest volume. She fishes it out of her purse, holds it haphazardly to her ear and promptly drops it with a deafening crack as Bonnie tells her the news of Elena's parents through muddied sobs.

When she returns to Mystic Falls, she finds a hollow impersonation of Elena Gilbert claiming to be her best friend, and Caroline holds fiercely to her conviction that all Elena needs is to get up and get out and open the damn drapes in her window, and Bonnie sends her a sharp glare and reprimands her for how insensitive she's being. Elena doesn't even look up.

There's a distinctly chilling breeze for the beginning of summer, and on June 7th, 2009, Elena sits numb and unresponsive on a hard wooden bench in the middle of a densely populated graveyard. Hundreds of people are gathered around two newly polished headstones, bowing their heads and grieving with copious amounts of uninhibited tears and sorrows. It's late evening, almost close to 9 o' clock, and Elena's been sitting there all day. Caroline's been there all day too—Liz Forbes graciously offered to help Jenna with the overwhelming task of organizing such a large funeral—but she's sure Elena hasn't noticed.

After eleven hours of being still and unresponsive, Elena looks up and the first gaze she meets is Caroline's. Caroline chokes back a startled sob, and tries for her eyes to remain dry as they lock with Elena's. They stare at each other for seconds, minutes, hours—neither of them is quite too sure, but all Caroline can think about is the dull, lifeless stare that she's never seen from Elena before. There's no spark—there's no mischief, there's no fire. There's no _Elena, _she thinks morbidly, but still can't tear her eyes away. Not until another figure blocks her view, cuts off their direct gaze. It's Bonnie, and she embraces Elena with tears flowing down her cheeks, no words necessary. Elena stiffens noticeably, but eventually relaxes into Bonnie's embrace-allows herself to be comforted.

And Caroline watches from afar, aware with a poignant anguish that she was wrong, so very _very _wrong. She hadn't ever contemplated it _possible _that the cruelty of this world could be capable of breaking the most restless, forceful, passionate spirit she'd ever known. But she knows that it has, and as every other person around her mourns the loss of two wonderfully kind individuals, Caroline mourns the loss of her best friend.

Caroline Forbes was fifteen years old and Elena Gilbert was the most fascinating person she'd ever met.

"Drink it," Elena persisted forcefully, her smile coy and teasing, but her eyes showing that crazed desperation—that frenzied thrill so apparent whenever she latched onto an idea that consumed her every thought. The manic excitement that gleamed so brightly under the twinkling stars above them; that spark that was for Caroline, and for Caroline alone.

"'Lena, it's—it's blood," she sputtered, affronted and more than a little disgusted.

"So what?" Elena asked inquisitively. "I know it's blood, I didn't think it was ketchup. I want to know what it tastes like."

"Then you drink it!"

Elena smiled knowingly. "I already did, I want to know what you think."

"How'd it taste?" Caroline asked wearily, taking a step closer to Elena on instinct as though her feet were doing it of their own accord.

"Salty," Elena deadpanned with dry humor. Caroline glared at her, unamused. "Come on, Care; don't ruin the moment," Elena chastised. "Please just try it, for me. I really want to know."

Years later, they would all sit gathered around a fireplace in the Salvatore Boarding House one Christmas Eve, and Damon would make a sarcastic quip that innocent, wholesome Elena would hardly be capable of pressuring a shark into biting. Caroline and Elena would avoid eye contact, each take a shot of whiskey and drown the awkwardness with bouts of fake laughter.

Truth was, in that moment of rebellious camaraderie between two teenage girls without a care in the world outside of Mystic Falls General, with the dark glow of the moonlight casting shadows on Elena's wide, joyful grin, Caroline would've done _anything _Elena wanted her to, embarrassingly little pressure required.

It was June 7th, 2009 and Caroline Forbes watched the sunset melt into a dark sky and could swear she'd never seen a splattering of stars so dull—could swear that she'd never seen the night sky without its brilliant, radiant spark that she'd come to adore, admire, covet in all the ways she'd never admit to. It was June 7th, 2009 and Caroline mourned the death of a spark whose absence left her whole identity hollow and defeated in a way she couldn't have imagined in her wildest nightmares.)

* * *

_But there'd be no story,_

_without all this dissension;_

_so I inflict the conflict,_

_with the utmost of intention._

Even under compulsion, her voice was soft and hesitant, sweaty palms fidgeting with the manila folder, hands shaking. "Car accident victim; several signs of distinct punctures in the lungs and internal bleeding."

"Original suggested course of action before the accident?"

"Blood transfusion, but the probability of complication due to the recent car accident and lung injury now presents a high risk factor."

"And was the transfusion successful?"

"No, his condition and vital signs continue to decline."

"And how far has the blood pressure level declined?"

Elena shifted uncomfortably against the tweed fabric of the chair and wished with all her might that she could avoid direct contact with his eyes, but the compulsion made it impossible.

"_Elena_," he emphasized dispassionately, his eyes so dark and focused that she couldn't detect a sliver of emotion in them, as he reiterated the question: "What is the patient's blood pressure level?"

"Chronically low; 41/22. It had been stable within the past twenty four hours, but within the last hour has decreased and continues to decline at alarming rates."

Elijah surveyed her trembling hands gripping the fabric of the armchair and he relented his questioning for the moment. They were in a dimly lit waiting room area on the basement level of the hospital, the entire expanse of the floor void of any living presence, the only passageway upstairs a temporary defunct elevator taken out of operation by Dr. Fell for exactly this purpose. Elena was under consensual compulsion not to move from her current seated position, but even given this initial protection, Elijah had no qualms about taking every precaution possible to prevent her from leaving the room in search of fresh blood.

"Does he have any family?" Elijah continued, this time his voice much softer.

"No, he was an orphan and his last remaining family member died two years ago."

"Can you feel the ache in your throat that wants to feed on his blood?"

"Yes," Elena responded, but even with the lack of inflection, Elijah could sense her disgust at the sound of her own words.

"Do you wish to satisfy this instinctual response?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to kill him?"

"No," and _this_ assertion... strong with conviction, and Elijah was momentarily caught off guard that this question was enough to subdue his compulsion. It made the corners of his mouth turn so slightly into the beginning of a smile.

Now, Elijah leaned just that bit closer to her, his voice just the slightest bit softer. "And why is that?"

"It's wrong; there's never a good enough justification for taking a life," Elena stated emphatically, as though it truly were that black and white.

"And if that man were threatening your life or someone you felt compelled to protect?"

"He's not; he's an innocent car accident victim in a hospital with barely any chance of surviving long enough to ever be outdoors again."

"Is he?" Elijah inquired with a thoughtful tilt of his head and a knowing smile. The brief lapse in eye contact caused the compulsion to break and Elena sank back into the chair, breathing heavily, the manila folder falling discarded in her lap. "Allow me to correct your misconception, Elena. It is understandable of course, since I gave you his _medical_ history only with no adequate preface and omitted a different but equally crucial piece of documentation. Adam Andrews' criminal history; please, take a look..." and he passed her a piece of paper that she accepted tentatively.

Emotionally drained, physically exhausted and mentally irritated, Elena had absolutely zero interest in whatever this flimsy piece of paper might tell her about Adam Andrews. She skimmed over the page with casual indifference until a paragraph halfway down the page caused her to pause.

'Andrews captured fifteen-year old Melanie Higgins outside of her Mill Woods home on Saturday, August 21st and restrained her to the passenger seat of his 2007 Black Cadillac CTS (#XDF-5453) and proceeded to swerve into a guard rail along highway State Route 895 in an attempt to dodge an eighteen wheeler truck veering into the lane he was traveling in. The speed at which the car collided with the guardrail is being estimated at between 55 and 60 mph and due to the force of impact and her positioning at the time of the collision, Ms. Higgins was killed on impact. Andrews was discovered thrown from the vehicle and unconscious at the scene. His victim was discovered having been choked to death by a gag around her throat and with various other restraints that held her in place inside the car. Andrews is currently being held in Mystic Falls Hospital ICU for various and potentially fatal medical complications. If the subject recovers, he will be scheduled for trial and will face possible charges of lifetime imprisonment.'

"Now Elena, I need to ask you a question. You aren't under compulsion, but I think you'll understand why I want you to answer seriously and honestly." Elena looked up from the piece of paper she'd been so engrossed in reading, startled to find that the edges were nearly crumpled down to bits with the force of her tight grip. "If Melanie Higgins was your brother Jeremy, and this circumstance of your potential turning had occurred a week earlier, and you were somehow privy to the information that this man would cause his death... would you have stopped it? Would you have gone to the police, tried to convince them to convict a man that you had no suitable evidence to reasonably condemn? Or would _that_ have been a justifiable reason to take a life?"

Elena nods reluctantly, "I understand."

Elijah does not relent, and she thinks that he would be smirking at her attempt to evade the question were this a different circumstance. "Elena, that's not an answer."

"Yes," she says impatiently, not looking him in the eye, her words rushed and disposition frantic- "Yes; I would've killed him, and I would've made it hurt, would've made him bleed for hours for even _considering_ doing that to Jeremy."

Silence. Elena hated silence, avoided it at all costs; it always bred uncertainty and insecurity—elicited doubt. If people were silent, they were judging; _scrutinizing_.

"So would I," he confessed honestly. "I _have_, as a matter of fact," Elijah continued, seemingly lost in a state of remembrance as he straightened the cuff of his shirt with a rueful smile. "There was a man who was quite taken with my sister in our village-Balder, I still remember the boy; his father was quite a competitor of ours, and therefore our families were not amicable. However, I'd always maintained good relations with most of them, espousing the need for harmonious community over feuds and hostility; I never found the feud between our families to be of much interest. That all changed one day when I found him harassing Rebekah by the streams in the dusk hours after a long day of labor..." a dark look of displeasure spread over his face as he continued the retelling of the story, his tone taking on a lower and distinctly frightening quality.

"He touched her quite inappropriately, and against her wishes, and all I saw was this blinding red... this wish to hurt him in a way I had never lain a hand on anyone ever before. I had never known pure anger that malicious before, but that evening it washed over me and I had not the willpower to do anything but succumb to it. I very nearly beat him to death before Rebekah's cries of horror pulled me out of it... Balder never spoke of it again, never dared-I imagine in fear of what I might have done in retaliation if he had. And that night, in the hours of dwindling darkness, I sat outside our home under the large oak tree in repent and expressed my regret and my fears to Niklaus, who sat and listened... who sat and consoled, who understood why I needed to confide this in him." His voice got very quiet now, and Elena had not moved an inch since he began the telling of this. "Since that night, I have not spoken this story to another soul, and Rebekah and I have never spoken of the incident since."

Elijah sat in a grave silence now, and Elena knew that any condolence she could give would be meaningless. "Elijah, why are you here?"

The question seemed to startle him out of the stupor and he regarded her curiously. "Are you not enjoying my company, Miss Gilbert?", he teased.

Elena laughed, but it was hollow and forced, mirroring perfectly his well-intentioned but ultimately vain attempt at teasing. The emotion in the air was still thick with sorrow, no matter the attempts to dissipate it. "I guess I don't understand why I'm _receiving_ it," Elena stressed in response. "I've spent the entire year we've known each other plotting to kill that same brother you valued so much once upon a time. I stabbed a dagger in the back of the sister you nearly beat a man to death to protect. I took part in a scheme to murder your entire family, _you_ included. I've done more of a grievance to your family than I think anyone else can claim, and yet—you're still here. You're trying to advise me on how to deal with bloodlust, telling me stories that no one else but two of your siblings have ever even _heard_ before. Why are you here?" She reiterated again, her voice faltering even as she tried to keep it steady. The real question of 'Why do you care?' was one she couldn't quite vocalize-not directly.

"Are you questioning the honor of my intentions, Elena?" His wry smile did not seem to register with her, as she quickly and vocally protested to the contrary, but lapsed into silence at his abrupt laughter. "Elena, do you find yourself unworthy of my help?"

"Maybe if you could give me just _one _logical reason why I am deserving of it_, _I'd be a bit more inclined to ease up and let you give it. Otherwise, I'm left with nothing but my vague and ridiculously unreliable intuition that's almost always wrong," Elena gave a bitter laugh.

"Mhm, you do seem to have a fairly defective intuition considering the countless examples to draw from, I'm afraid I cannot argue with that," his eyes gleamed with good-natured humor.

"Elijah!" She exclaimed in surprise, although to her own ear it sounded somewhat like a reprimand, and she immediately looked down sheepishly, although unable to hide the first genuine smile she'd been able to exhibit in days. "Can you please just answer a question with a straight answer and not another question, _just this once? _I swear I won't mention it ever again, your reputation as Badass Original Headslinger is in no jeopardy."

"'Badass Original Headslinger'?" Elijah repeated the moniker slowly, "Is that how they're referring to me on Craigslist these days?" He mused with a grin. She glared at him and crossed her arms impatiently, her smile replaced with a stubborn and resolute expression. "Very well, then. There is hardly an astonishing secret to it, Miss Gilbert. I find you intriguing—I have met many children over the course of my thousand-year existence, and yet none quite like yourself, not to imply I view you as a child. I've certainly never met anyone—child or not—that has ever displayed such intrepid nerve as to stab oneself in an attempt to fool an Original vampire, nor any that have bothered to feel remorse for unavoidable collateral damage against a maniac hybrid threatening her family. I do believe that I once left you a letter which remarked that your compassion was a gift, Elena." He tilted his head in playful inquisition. "Did you not receive it?"

Elena swallowed convulsively. If there was one thing she couldn't allow herself to mull over right now it was the unsettling implications of 'Always and Forever' that had haunted her thoughts in and out of restless sleep for months. "He was your _brother_, Elijah; what he was doing to me or my family should change nothing about how you view it," her voice was small in repent, but strong with conviction all the same.

"I am _loyal_ to my family, Elena, but I am not _illogical_. From what I understand of what you're saying, you see it the same. My brother killed you to gain access to an unlimited hybrid army and slaughtered your Aunt without a second thought; my sister _actually _killed you out of undeserved vengeance; my mother mercilessly used and killed your guardian with no regard for his family or loved ones, and yet you seem to be goading me into acquiescing to your failings against my family. Why?"

Elena looked away sharply, gripping the manila folder tightly to her chest and tapping the heel of her foot nervously. "When I found out what I had really given Esther the means to do to your family, I was terrified of your reaction—of your _disappointment_—and I lied. I hate lying, and I'm god damn awful at it to boot. And then when it became apparent that the only way to kill Klaus was to kill all of you, I didn't know what else to do, and another one of your brothers died. Because of _me_…" she broke off, a choke of emotion in her voice. "And I didn't care. I really wish I could say that I did, but I didn't—not then. I didn't really even _think_ about it, not the way I should have. I only cared that you were going to die; it didn't matter that Finn and Kol and Rebekah had to die, too. No—_just you. _That was wrong," she stated with finality, "…and god, I didn't even _know _it was wrong. That doesn't sound like compassion to me, Elijah, not in the least bit—not _my_ definition of it."

Elijah nodded in understanding. "So, you _want_ me to acknowledge that it was wrong, and you want me to demand an apology." It wasn't a question, and Elena didn't move at all, didn't look him in the eye, still fidgeting with her uncomfortably stiff posture; she didn't need to say or do a thing for him to understand. "Elena, that was wrong of you to ignore that. It was wrong to allow all my siblings to die to kill Klaus. You should apologize to me," he stated unemotionally, staring at her gravely.

She looked him in the eye now, straightening her back to meet him at eye level. "I am sorry, Elijah. I never wanted it to come to that, it never should've, and I never should've let it."

He smiled sadly and let her words sink in around them for a moment. "Did that help?"

She thought on it briefly before smiling back. "Yeah, actually. It does," she stated empathically, surprised by this realization.

"I hope you realize that it wasn't necessary."

Elena shook her head in disagreement. "It's necessary if I meant it, and I did." She turned away from him, deep in thought. She knew from the moment Elijah sat down across from her that she was going to make the decision to turn—perhaps a part of her had known it since she'd waken up to Stefan's assurance that Jeremy was alive and safe and waiting for her. It dawned on her just then that Elijah had been speaking, because he seemed startled when she declared suddenly, "I'm going to turn—accept the transition. For him," she added the last part in a small whisper that Elijah doubted human ears could've detected.

Elijah did not ask who 'he' was; he had a fairly good idea without her needing to vocalize it. "I know," he responded softly.

Elena stared at him incredulously. "How could you know? … I don't think even _I _knew until a minute ago…"

Elijah gave a slight shrug and a pensive smile. "I didn't, truly—it merely seemed the appropriate consolation to give."

The fluorescent hospital light that illuminated the waiting room was giving Elena a headache now, and she could feel the bloodlust simmering in her chest, and the pulsing ache behind her gums. "Thank you for being here, although I find it amazing that you came simply upon my call... I definitely expected you to ignore it," she spoke hesitantly; "But I had to ask Stefan to try even if it turned out pointless; if you hadn't noticed, I have a tendency towards stubbornness… occasionally," she joked with a wry smile.

His facial expression seemed to darken at once, and for a moment she thought that she'd overstepped a boundary and furrowed her brows in confusion. "Elijah…?" She asked cautiously.

"You asked me here?" His voice displayed so much confusion and genuine doubt, and it left her bemused and bewildered at the seemingly obvious question.

"Why… why else would you be here?" She asked, now alarmed at whatever he seemed so befuddled by.

He laughed now, his expression softening and his tone lightening, his laugh a low chuckle of sudden understanding. "I must tell you that I did not receive your _summons_ from the youngest Salvatore…" he trailed off with an amused quirk of his lips at the mere concept. "Of course, I would've rushed to your aid either way," he teased with an eyebrow raise, "…but no, I had a business affair interrupted by a rather loud and determined banging on my door only to receive an enthusiastic Miss Forbes and a slightly more… _distressed_ Miss Bennett," he mused with a laugh.

"_Bonnie and Caroline_?" Elena repeated in disbelief. It seemed so unlikely; the only way they could've tracked Elijah was by Bonnie's magic, and knowing her best friends the way she did, it was laughable to consider that Bonnie would've given in to Caroline's impulses, especially given the way the witch felt about the entire Original Family.

"Oh yes," he assured her in amusement. "Caroline was particularly adamant on my involvement in your impending… decision. I believe her exact words were, 'You'd better haul your sexy-dressed ass to the hospital ASAP unless you prefer to find Elena missing limbs for how hard Stefan and Damon will be pulling her in every which direction'."

Elena buried her face in her hands for a moment before regaining her composure to look back at Elijah, who was still smirking. "I must admit, that girl has an impressive vigor, I wouldn't dare deny her _that_. And I cannot help but agree with her statement, while admittedly I would've asserted it less… colorfully," he continued. With a more serious tone he added, "For all the positive attributes the Salvatore men possess—and I don't deny that there are some indeed—remaining objective in the face of possibly losing one they love is certainly not one of them."

"Is that why you're here, then? To provide me an objective opinion?" Elena asked suddenly.

He raised an eyebrow and Elena blushed a little under his scrutiny; "Is that not why you _summoned _me here, Miss Gilbert?" He asked, emphasizing the irritating word once again with a wide grin, as Elena cursed herself for the third time for implying something with such uncomfortable implications.

"Well… I guess so. As you said, I love them both, but I can't exactly count on Stefan or Damon to give me an objective opinion on whether to turn or not with how much they each have invested in me. It's not as if I blame them for it, I doubt that I could be objective if the situation were reversed. But in this case, yes… I need someone to be objective."

"You needed someone trustworthy who had little or no impeding emotions towards you that would prevent them from being so, and you assumed myself to fit those qualifications… quite resourceful, indeed," he considered thoughtfully, but his tone held a bitter quality to it and Elena almost interrupted him in fear that she'd offended him before he cut her off, "May I ask how you decided that I would fit that criteria?"

"I-" she broke off, stunned. Was he seriously implying what it seemed like? How was she supposed to react to that?

"Elena," he spoke reassuringly now, surely aware that she seemed distressed over his reaction, "I do not fault you for needing an objective opinion; it is not at all a foolish thought. I merely wonder what gave you the impression that I would be of use to you in this way. I'm curious as to which part of my assertion of 'Always and Forever' seemed passively objective to you?"

He did not allow her the time to process this and instead continued with a sad smile, "Elena, I will always attempt to give you the most helpful and constructive advice possible, but if you thought me to be decidedly less objective in the matter of your possible _death_ than either of the Salvatores, I do believe you are mistaken."

"You care about me…" Elena whispered in confusion. She had no idea if it was a statement or a question, but it seemed so impossible either way.

Elijah smiled and reached his hand underneath his chair to feel for something, but Elena was too busy studying his expression to notice or wonder about it. "I suppose I do," he admitted briskly.

Gaining slightly more confidence from this blatant admission, she inquired further. "I happen to remember you once telling me that caring for the doppelganger was not a mistake you would ever make again. I was given the impression that you were a man of your word—"

"Man of my word indeed," he laughed sardonically. "Although I do believe the validity of my word is up for debate, I am undoubtedly a man of many mistakes, Elena, many of which I have repeated centuries and lifetimes over and will continue to do so for centuries and lifetimes to come." He paused for a moment before adding, "May I inquire as to whether you consider us friends, Elena?"

The abrupt change in question startled her, but she answered "Yes" immediately, because even if she hadn't been fully aware of that to begin with, it was the truth.

"Then," he continued, not missing a beat, "As my friend, I will ask of you a piece of objective advice in return—do you think that caring for the latest doppelganger will come to prove a mistake?"

"No—I think you can be fairly confident in the fact that she has more than learned her lesson when it comes to deceiving you…"

"And you believe it wise to take her word on this matter?"

She smiled wistfully, "A very wise and equally intimidating man once told me that your word means nothing until you live up to it… so what advice can I really give besides to stick around and find out?"

He reached once again under his chair, and he could see the expression on her face change dramatically. "Elijah… I think there's someone down here. I can…" she cut off, looking around in a panic now, "I can smell it, someone else is down here."

"Elena, I need you to breathe slowly and listen to my voice. No one else is down here; it's just you and I. There is absolutely _no one _that I will risk you hurting, do you understand?" And with that, he pulled the previously concealed blood bag out from under the chair and placed it in his lap. The compulsion binding her to her seat was still in effect, but he could tell she was struggling to break out of it and not at all coherent to his voice. "Elena, look at me. Talk to me; say something."

Her voice was low and quiet, her eyes still fixated on the blood. "Why couldn't I smell it before?"

"I had it spelled so that it would remain odorless until I touched it; it's a very simple spell, not very difficult to achieve if you know the right sources to secure it." She did not seem the least bit concerned with this, her vision never straying from the blood.

He stood up cautiously and positioned himself carefully in front of the doorway before he spoke; "Elena, you may move now." This effectively broke the compulsion and she lunged for him, with a force of strength he wasn't expecting and it caused him to stumble slightly. Despite his best efforts to calm her agitation down, it seemed to have no effect as she tore the bag right from his hands, staring at it in awe. Although she may have been momentarily dumbstruck by how overpowering the hunger was, it did nothing to subdue her actions as she ripped greedily into the bag at once. Elijah did not let go of his vice grip on her forearm as she sucked down the bag with unrivaled enthusiasm.

He waited as her breathing lessened, her heartbeat slowing and all at once she detangled herself from him and backed away, holding her head down and hiding her face from him. He took a moment to compose himself before he tentatively approached her, but she seemed to have an entirely different idea.

As soon as he made a half-step towards her, she lunged at him once more, this time not for blood, but in a—surprisingly successful—attempt to pin him against the wall. Her newly aching fangs were bared to him, still coated with sticky blood, eyes narrowed and tinged red. It would be reasonable to equate her ability to overpower him simply as a testament to his surprise at the aggression, but he knew it was more than that. He _knew_ because he'd seen that manic, frenzied pulse in those very same eyes before, and he knew that this was not mere coincidence. She was too strong for a newborn, too aggressive for her normal behavior. He had a vague idea of what this could mean, but none of it was remotely reassuring. In a sudden realization of panic, he realized if he didn't act somehow, this could get dangerous fast. He hadn't accounted for this kind of strength; he'd have to distract her. It could end up being the only promise he could ever keep for her, but he'd never let her hurt someone-not if it was within his power to stop it.

He pushed her off him with such force that she crashed into and shattered the glass of the reception desk, but it deterred her only momentarily. He stopped her dead in her tracks as she went to attack him again, biting into his own wrist and shoving it out for her. She cocked her head in suspicion briefly before taking it and puncturing her fangs into a deep bite. He hissed in reaction, his instinctual response to struggle and fight, but he remained firmly in place, letting her suck every ounce of his life essence. The valiant distraction effort proved not only to _not_ calm and rationalize her—as was customary with newborns when they were provided with purely original vampire blood—but instead to _further_ fuel the hostility and belligerence.

He was still managing to fend her off from escaping the room, but he couldn't suppress the shiver that ran down his spine from the look in her eyes. From that manic desperation that had once been so eerily mirrored in her twin predecessor to her abnormal reaction to his blood, he knew he'd have to take a rather drastic measure. The crack that resounded throughout the room as he snapped her neck sliced through the deafening silence as he watched her slump to the floor, unconscious.

He stared at her immobile form spread out on the floor in horror and penitence as he sunk back into his chair, breathing heavily and completely overwhelmed. Once composed, he carefully took her body and placed it delicately on the reception couch a few meters away before he straightened out his shirt collar, wiped the spilled from his hands and chain locked the door behind him. He took a deep breath and reached for the phone on his right; a particularly unconventional Doctor had a hell of a lot of information she needed to clarify.

* * *

**Notes: **So, there we have it. I'm a bit unsure about the way I've ended it, but I'll leave that for you awesome people to deliberate on. If you made it through this monster of a chapter, I thank you very much for your time and hope that some of you will want to provide some feedback. :)

**Extra Note: **I do not currently have a beta-reader, and man, would that be a wonderful thing. If anyone is interested in this unpaid and more than likely frustrating position, I would love it if you could PM me about it, it would be an absolutely amazing thing to have. What I really need is someone to proof-read my work and take out my several annoying tendencies towards ridiculous wordiness and the habit to repeat words and phrases and adverbs, as well as someone to kick my ass into being more time efficient. The position also comes with an Indiana Jones replica whip to snap when I've dozed off as well as a lifetime supply of Mike's Hard Lemonade to deal with me effectively-hey, it's the only way I deal with _myself _even semi-effectively, let's be real.

**Next Time** (or within the next two chapters) **on D&R:** Elijah confronts Meredith about rather important facts that she neglectfully omitted from her initial briefing. Jeremy & Elena have a heart to (not-so-regularly-beating) heart on the changes or lack thereof to their sibling-ship. An unexpected and equally unwelcome guest crashes Stefan & Elena's Vampire 101 weekend outing, causing all kinds of frustration and mischief and maybe even a little bit of marshmallow bonding. Bonnie and Tyler begin to realize the extent of which their actions may have impacted a domino effect they have very little control over. Caroline meets a charming and bemusing college student who seems to know a lot more than he should about Mystic Falls with being born and raised in Napa Valley. A certain blonde Original has a very perplexing proposition for a decidedly unreceptive doppelganger... and much more to come in following chapters. ;)

Thanks for reading guys,

Jamie


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